Uphill Both Ways
by L.M.Lewis
Summary: A nice weekend of fishing and hunting.


Disclaimer: These characters are not mine and I make no profit from them

**Author's Note**: I wrote a story called "Rule X", in which Mark and the judge began the formal proceedings necessary to eventually clear McCormick to sit for the bar exam. This story (which first appeared in the fourth Star for BK 'zine) doesn't have much to do with that one, but begins the day after it ends, in May of 1987, with McCormick having just finished three semesters of law school. This means it lies smack in the middle, time-line wise, of another story I wrote called "Dry Heat". No one but me would notice, most likely, but dang that time line is getting crowded. It also exists in peculiar isolation from two other stories I wrote that mention Sonny Daye—"Addressee Unknown" and "Night and Day"'.

**Uphill Both Ways**

By L. M. Lewis

It was Saturday morning and all was right with the world. Hardcastle had his cup of coffee and an entire, _intact_ copy of the LA Times—no chasing down the sports pages, no wondering where the automotive section had gotten off to. McCormick had kept late hours the night before and had not yet made an appearance this morning.

The judge couldn't quibble with that too much—Friday had been the last day of exam week and the completion of any course taught by Professor Hinkleman required a certain amount of beer as a chaser. He'd even forked over a twenty to make sure that there'd be a cab ride home.

He savored the silence. He admired the glint of the sun off the pool and the deeper blue of the ocean beyond that. He heard the engine of an unfamiliar car in the driveway.

He frowned, checked his watch, and rousted himself from the poolside chair. It was possible, he supposed, that McCormick's celebration hadn't ended until this morning. Yesterday's mail had also brought the papers announcing his official and long-awaited pardon.

Hardcastle wondered if _that_ had come up in the conversation with Mark's fellow Hinkleman survivors during the evening's festivities. He thought maybe that particular milestone was one Mark had wanted to toast all by himself. He'd come the long way 'round and it was unlikely that there was anyone among his classmates who would understand that. The judge figured there was at least a possibility that last night's drinking had been done solo, using something harder than beer to achieve the right effect.

He took his time—walking around the house, not through it—giving McCormick plenty of time to head into the gatehouse if he wasn't in the mood, or condition, for conversation yet. And, as he'd suspected, he saw the back end of a taxi heading out the drive as he rounded the front corner of the house.

But that's where his expectations ended. Standing in the drive, suitcase on the pavement next to his feet and a mildly uncertain look on his face, was McCormick's seldom-seen father, Sonny Daye. His clothes had the slept-in look of the overnight traveler, and his face was a shade less tan than the last time Hardcastle had seen him.

The judge didn't think that Mark had received more than a post card or two from the man in the past year. There certainly hadn't been any announcement of an impending visit—Hardcastle was fairly certain he would have heard about that.

He fixed a polite smile on his face—fixed it securely. He'd already made up his mind, a long time back, that he'd do whatever he could to _encourage_ the man to be McCormick's father. He stepped out, away from the house, and waved cordially. He didn't say 'What the hell are you doing here?' Instead, he said, "Good morning."

"Hey," Sonny grinned. There wasn't the slightest shred of decent nervousness to it. Of course the man was used to hostile audiences. "Is Mark home?"

"Ah," Hardcastle cast a glance up past the other man toward the gatehouse, "probably."

He saw the door there opening, and McCormick stepping through, squinting at the sunlight and still tucking his shirt in. He must've heard the cab's arrival, too, and had probably seen its passenger from the window. He apparently hadn't taken any vows about smiling politely. His expression was somewhere between confused and irritated, with a dollop of hung-over on the side just to make it more interesting.

"_Sonny_? What the hell are you doing here?"

Hardcastle supposed it was a reasonable question, but Mark's father managed a credible look of pained disappointment.

"Well," he shrugged, "thought I'd just stop by while I was in town and see my kid, that's all."

Mark glanced around, as if he needed a moment to consider this, and then directly back at Sonny. "You aren't in some kinda trouble, are you?"

"Trouble? _Me_?"

Hardcastle noticed immediately that the answer had not contained the word 'no'. Mark must've noticed, too. He skewered the man with a narrower stare.

"What kinda trouble?"

"None . . . _really_," Sonny said with a quick two-handed gesture. "Got a new job lined up; probably gonna be away for awhile, just wanted to see ya, see how you were doing. How's the law school gig going?"

Mark was wavering. Hardcastle could see it. It was the eternal struggle between seeing things as they are, and seeing them as they ought to be—though by now he must have realized Sonny was about as far from the Platonic ideal of a father as a guy could get.

McCormick let out a long breath that might have been a sigh of resignation, and then asked, "How long are you here for?"

"Just the weekend," Sonny replied cheerily.

Hardcastle stifled a small sigh of his own. It was one of relief. How much damage could the guy do in two lousy days? But he supposed they couldn't stand out there in the driveway making small talk for the whole time. It would eventually get awkward, though Sonny would probably be the last one to notice. Mark wasn't issuing any warm invitations to have his dad join him over in the gatehouse to catch-up on recent events either, so the judge figured it was up to him to drag the party inside.

"Had breakfast yet?" he asked no one in particular.

00000

McCormick did most of the cooking—eggs and bacon—and Sonny handled most of the eating. Hardcastle was off his feed. Their guest was at least effusive in his praise, 'As good as the buffet at the Sands,' he'd said, between bites.

"What were you planning on doing this weekend?" Mark asked casually. "I mean, besides stopping by here."

Sonny paused in mid-forkful and looked up, very sincere. "Well," he said after a moment, "I thought maybe we could spend a little time together, you know, hang out. Whatever you'd like to do."

Hardcastle noticed the younger man had stuck to one piece of toast, and a glass of tomato juice. Now he was on his feet, over by the sink, pouring half of the juice down the drain.

The judge joined him there, leaning casually against the counter. "I got a bottle of aspirin," he offered quietly.

Mark frowned and replied under his breath, "Don't think that's gonna get rid of this." Then there was a weary smile and he added, "Don't worry. I'll be polite."

Hardcastle edged back. Maybe he'd overestimated the younger man's relentless optimism. Maybe a semester of Henry Hinkleman and a night of tequila had taken the bloom off the rose. Maybe Sonny had finally used it all up.

"I was going camping," Mark said with a straightforward look at his father. "Wanna come?"

This was the first the judge had heard of it. Camping usually was done in conjunction with fishing, and at Hardcastle's behest. He thought McCormick's complaints on the subject were mostly ritual, but volunteering was unheard of.

On the other hand, Sonny made Mark look like an Eagle Scout whose badge in camp-craft had come with oak leaf clusters. The rugged woodsman himself was now leaning comfortably against the kitchen counter, looking remarkably recovered from his bout of dissipation. Connivance was apparently an effective hangover cure.

But Sonny did not immediately say no. He repeated the word 'camping', with a look of mild bemusement and added, "You mean, like, out in the woods?"

Mark nodded sagely. "Just a blanket, and the stars overhead at night. You can have a sleeping bag if you want one," he shrugged, as though that was a mere concession to the inexperienced tenderfoot. "I like the solid ground under me. You really feel connected to nature that way."

Hardcastle fought down a smile. McCormick's idea of roughing it was going to a luau and having his drink in a coconut shell instead of a glass.

"Of course we usually live off the land," the ersatz mountain man continued. "We like to do a little fishing. You know, we once stayed out a whole month doing that, me and the judge. I've got this great recipe for fish. All you need is a stick," he held up an invisible one in his left hand, "and a fish." He demonstrated the principle with a deftly handled, but equally invisible fish. "I call it—" he paused for effect, "_Fish_-on-a-Stick."

Sonny stared at him with a slightly narrowed expression, then shifted his gaze briefly to Hardcastle, as if to see if he was being had. There was nothing but honest sincerity there, too.

"Outside?" he finally said. "All weekend?"

Mark nodded enthusiastically.

"What if it, ya know, _rains_?"

McCormick's smile slipped ever-so-slightly. He'd probably been hoping for the man to recoil in horror; instead he seemed mildly intrigued, possibly by the bizarreness of the idea.

"If it rains," Mark said, a little less robustly, "you look for a cave." His smile had faded all the way to wan. "Of course you have to make sure there isn't a bear in it, first."

Sonny seemed to be giving that a fair consideration. He finally said, "How?"

Mark looked to Hardcastle, apparently no longer feeling inspired. The judge scratched his nose, shrugged, and said, "Well, you can toss a rock in; that usually works. 'Course you have to make sure there's a tree nearby, so when the bear comes charging out, you've got something to climb."

"Which doesn't always help," Mark said soberly, "'cause black bears can climb trees, too."

"And the grizzlies'll just shake the tree till you fall out," Hardcastle added with a grin.

Mark was grinning again, as well, at the punch line of what was an old, shared joke. Sonny seemed to get it, too, though _his_ smile was tempered with a certain amount of caution.

"Well," he said cavalierly, "it's only a day and a half, what the hell, how bad can it be?"

The sudden, stricken look on McCormick's face might have served for an answer, but it was only present for a moment. Hardcastle watched him quickly master it with the experience born of a lifetime of adversity.

"Might be fun," Sonny added, looking at the almost empty plate in front of him, oblivious to everything else. "Might take ya up on that sleeping bag, though," he added.

Hardcastle reached over and patted Mark on the shoulder. "Tent might be a good idea, too," he said quietly. "I think it's supposed to rain."

00000

The truck had to be packed. Sonny was useless enough that he'd been sent into the basement to look for a flashlight that wasn't there. Mark figured it would take about half as long to sort out the gear without his assistance. He'd almost taken a pass on the sleeping bags and air mattresses out of sheer cussed spite, but finally decided he'd need a decent night's sleep in order to deal with the whole idea of spending a weekend roughing it with Sonny.

He and the judge had held an emergency conference, out in back of the garage by the now nearly-loaded truck, with McCormick trying to convince the other man that this was one camping trip he would want to take a pass on. He'd finally succeeded, but only by intimating that this might be a chance for him to finally get to talk with Sonny, father to son. He hadn't said it outright, and even in implying it he felt himself flush—he hadn't come this close to outright lying to Hardcastle in a long time.

In the end he won, though it hardly felt like a victory, and he even wondered if it he'd made the right decision. At any rate, he didn't think it was fair to inflict his earlier miscalculation on a friend.

"So where you think you'll go?" Hardcastle asked him, still looking a little put-out and a lot relieved. "Stinson Creek is real pretty this time of year."

Mark glanced up at the sky—some darkening clouds in the west. "I dunno, Stinson's kinda far. Maybe someplace a little closer." He made a wry face in the direction of the house. "You think he's really gonna want to fish?"

"Who knows?" Hardcastle shrugged. "Maybe. All I can tell you is he's sure as hell not gonna want to _clean_ 'em."

"Hah." Mark managed a smile. "Who says you two have nothing in common?" He looked down at his watch and then up at the house again doubtfully. Sonny had appeared on the back steps, looking pleased with himself.

"Found it." He held up a heavy-duty foot-long Mag-lite that could, and _had_ on occasion, come in handy as a defensive weapon. "It was in the room with all the file cabinets."

Mark looked at the judge, then back at Sonny. "The file room door was locked," he said sternly.

"Ah . . . _yeah_." Sonny's expression faded into puzzlement. "Well," he finally said, "you told me to _look_ for it."

McCormick heard Hardcastle mutter something under his breath. He reached over and snatched the flashlight from his father, tossing it in with the rest of the stuff, leaving Sonny still looking a bit baffled.

"How 'bout Pearl Lake?" the judge said, looking like he'd mostly mastered his irritation.

Mark glanced over at Sonny again, then back at Hardcastle. "We had a nice time at Pearl Lake. You caught that twelve-pounder."

"Yeah," the judge nodded. "Fishing's pretty good up there. You probably won't have to touch the hotdogs."

"I dunno—I suppose," Mark said doubtfully, unwilling to admit his real reservations. He had a feeling that wherever he took Sonny, he'd never want to go there again. The man who was the subject of this calculated assessment was standing off to the side, slightly slouched with his hands in his pockets, blithely unaware of the disapproval.

"Got your stuff ready?" McCormick asked him abruptly.

Sonny startled, looked briefly surprised, then hooked a thumb over his shoulder toward the house. "The suitcase is all I brought."

"You don't need the whole thing," Mark sighed. "Not a lot of call for the tuxes up at the lake and we're only going to be gone one day." He went back into the garage and emerged a moment later with a small duffle. "Grab a change of clothes and a toothbrush." He handed the bag to Sonny. "And try to hustle. It's almost ten."

The man departed at a not particularly efficient lope, with Mark still frowning. That expression held until he realized the judge was giving him his own steady stare of disapproval.

"_What_?" McCormick said testily.

Hardcastle shook his head once, quickly. "I just think you can't really blame him for taking you up on it. He's not very good at it, but at least he's _trying_ to be a father."

Mark glared right back at him. "I think kids need consistency. I think I'd kinda finally gotten used to the idea that he's a jerk." There was humor in the bitterness—that was always what had seen him through. He finally dropped his gaze down to the driveway and added, with a sigh, "I just think maybe it's easier if he _doesn't_ drop in, out of nowhere, every once in a while."

He looked up again, back over his shoulder at the house. "And what the hell's taking him so long now?"

As if in answer, Sonny stepped through the kitchen door, smiling and carrying the now stuffed duffle.

"Get in," Mark said without much enthusiasm as the man approached. Then he opened the door of the truck on his own side and climbed in. He smiled wanly at Hardcastle. "See you Sunday night."

He started the engine, put the truck in gear, waved once with a futile attempt at cheerfulness, and pulled down the drive.

00000

The one thing about being around Sonny was that there were no awkward silences—though sometimes the non-silences could get awkward as hell. This occasion was no exception. Sonny nattered on about recent gigs he's had, Tahoe and Reno mostly, dropping names with his usual flair. He didn't seem to take notice that McCormick had mostly withdrawn from the conversation, limiting his responses to the minimal number of 'yeses' and 'uh-huhs' to qualify as still pretending to pay attention.

Eventually, though, Sonny took a break, and the drawn out, pensive moment, while not quite qualifying as awkward, got Mark's attention.

He finally said, "What?" as though the silence had been a question and he hadn't quite understood.

"Oh . . . nothing," Sonny said with an unaccustomed air of stoicism.

"No, really, what?" Mark insisted. Suspecting he already knew the thought that was on the man's mind.

"Well, I was just thinkin'—been a while since I hit Vegas. I got a lotta friends there—places that'll comp me. I could show you a good time."

Mark cast a disbelieving glance to the side. Maybe only partly disbelieving, because on several occasions he had offered the same alternative—minus the friends and comps—to Hardcastle when faced with a weekend of camping.

"Why would you want to spend the weekend in a crowded, noisy, casino when you could be out in the mountains eating fresh trout?" he said. It had come out before he'd even thought about it. The effect was strange, like some sort of on-the-road séance, with Hardcastle present in spirit form.

Sonny's response was a raised eyebrow and a look of studied astonishment, as though the answer was too obvious to bear saying out loud. It was a weird insight into what he was going to look like in twenty years time. Mark shook the whole thing off with a shudder. It was too bizarre.

"No," he said firmly, "we're going camping."

This time they were his words, not Hardcastle's, but the effect was just as impressive as if they'd come from the judge. Sonny said no more about Vegas; he even stopped talking about his other night-life haunts. Instead, he picked up another thread of the morning's conversation.

"You really spent a whole _month_ out here?"

"Not here," Mark said, suddenly reticent again without being sure exactly why. "It was up in Oregon."

"Why?" Sonny's tone was frankly astonished.

"Well, we didn't _plan_ it that way. We were just going up there for a couple days. The plane we were in crashed way out in the middle of nowhere. We had to walk back, that's all."

That wasn't all, of course. There'd been bad guys, and a couple of murders, and the very real possibility of death. And the judge had admitted some things up there in the wilderness that he'd never alluded to before or since. But there was no way that McCormick was going to discuss any of that with the man whose name wasn't on his birth certificate.

Sonny wasn't exactly pushing for details. Mark glanced to the side. His father looked removed—maybe he was thinking about Las Vegas again. The uncharacteristic silence held for another mile or two, then Sonny cleared his throat in a way that seemed to indicate something of import.

"There was something I wanted to tell you, kid."

Mark felt an inward cringe. The time for heartfelt revelations had come and gone three years earlier. He wanted none of it now and he didn't know what he'd do if Sonny handed it to him.

"I'm probably going to be away for a while, out of touch." Sonny said it slowly, in an almost stately way that was quite un-Sonny-like.

Mark had to credit himself; his mouth hadn't dropped open at the absolute absurdity of the statement—not that the notion was absurd, but that Sonny would feel that business as usual required this special announcement.

"A while," Mark repeated. He hadn't laughed, either, though he wouldn't risk looking back at Sonny again just yet.

"Yeah," he saw the man nod, out of the corner of his eye. "I thought you should know."

"How long?" Mark asked, because it seemed the polite thing to do. It would have to be upwards of twenty-five years to actually qualify as a record, in Sonny's case.

"Don't know. A while."

Mark almost asked him, flat-out, why he was bothering to tell him this. Instead he took a very quick glance at the man on his right. He'd had a sudden inkling of what was behind it all.

"You're finally doing it, huh?" Mark said. "I know the feds have been after you to give evidence for a while. You gonna take 'em up on it?"

Sonny twitched, presented a slightly offended expression, and said, "Nah." It had been a little too hasty. "Nothin' like that. Just traveling. On the road, some overseas stuff." His nonchalance had an edge to it.

Mark didn't like being lied to, and sometimes if you hammered on the lies enough, they would reveal the shape of the truth, but he didn't feel much like doing that right now. Another thing had occurred to him in the midst of this exchange, that Sonny, probably on the verge of turning federal witness—exchanging his life, such as it was, for another, more anonymous one—had come to _him_.

_He hasn't got anybody else._

Mark hid his grimace. The truth was, Sonny didn't have him, either—except in a very abstract, highly theoretical way—and when Mark thought of the idea of having a father, he did not think of Sonny Daye.

Still, as Hardcastle had said, the man was trying. _Very trying_. He was pretty sure some of the grimace had slipped out.

"If something happens," Sonny said hesitantly, "I mean, like an accident or something, I'd have 'em notify you."

"That's good," Mark said. "I'd wanna know." That was the most he could muster. He had a nagging feeling he'd feel sorry about that later.

00000

Sonny had quickly reverted to more typical topics—all tackled with his usual air of braggadocio. Mark was not much more than an audience for this part and he was grateful to be back in neutral territory. They were off the main drag, following a twisting road that barely qualified as secondary. That was one of the nice things about Pearl Lake—especially for McCormick, who routinely thought the journey was more important than the destination.

But even the most challenging drive eventually had to end in a round of setting up camp. Sonny seemed mildly mystified by the tent and the bedding. Maybe he was assuming these were concessions to his city-slicker status. He fetched and carried uncomplainingly, but only when specifically asked and directed, and in the end, it seemed easier to Mark to just do it himself, rather than explain it all to the other man. He wondered how Hardcastle had had the patience to talk him thorough all this stuff, before it had become second nature to him.

He had the tent set up and the air mattresses inflated. The bed rolls were in place and the lantern filled and placed where it would be easily accessible when night fell. He'd dug a fire pit, and arranged the tinder, with the slightly larger pieces near at hand. Sonny looked on with some interest.

"Kinda a small fire, isn't it?" he commented.

"Takes time," Mark said, encouraging the first small flame with some steady blowing and then adding in a few twigs. He sat back on his heels and watched the thing start to feed on the large sticks he'd propped over the pile. He supposed he hadn't known that, back when he'd first gone camping with the judge. He supposed he'd thought you just needed a log and a match.

_Everything takes time._

"If you want to try fishing, we can." Mark squinted up at the sky. "Kinda the wrong time of day for it. Too bright. I can show you how to cast, though. It takes patience."

"Aw," the older man shrugged, "'sokay. Don't think it's one of those things I'd use very much." He was standing there, hands in his pockets, looking around with a vague air of unease. "Now what?"

"Now you sit down and relax," Mark said, rearranging himself into something comfortably cross-legged. "And once we've got this going properly, we can roast some hot dogs."

Sonny looked down at the ground. "You did this for a whole month, huh?" he said dubiously as he sat down a few feet back from the fire on a likely-looking log.

"Yeah," Mark grinned, "but don't worry; even Hardcastle was sick of it by then." He laid another slightly larger piece of wood across the fire and looked up at the sky, and hills around them. He took a deep breath and then added, "And _this_ time nobody's shooting at us."

Sonny raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

00000

It was a rental car, and the name on the rental contract wouldn't help the police any when the thing eventually turned up parked somewhere. The man in the driver's seat had half a dozen IDs which he rotated as the situation demanded. The guy next to him was equally chameleon-like, and neither one of them had a face that was much given to standing out in a crowd. The driver was going by the name of Randy Jesic this week, and the other guy was, at least for now, Marty Revel. He'd put the accent on the last syllable, and looked just a little irritated when people got it wrong. It was a nice bit of stage business, Randy thought. He liked working with professionals.

Short names and ordinary faces. In and out and get the job done with a minimum of fuss.

"She said it's a place called Pearl Lake," Marty muttered as they pulled out of the rental lot and onto the ramp that led to the highway. He had the map folded down to a manageable size. "Here." He pointed to the spot." Then he looked up. "It ain't all that far. You're gonna want to get off at 210."

Randy nodded. He had the feel of the car, now, and was even starting to feel a little relaxed after the hustle to catch a plane and get to LA from Reno. It was a good thing that for Mr. Florentino, money was no object. But even Mr. F. couldn't do anything about there being only so many hours of daylight. He glanced over his left shoulder toward the sun, shooting blood-red rays through a darkening cloud cover.

"Don't matter how close it is. We're losing the light."

"We're not shootin' a damn movie," Marty replied testily. "I don't mind hunting at night."

"We don't know the area and he does. What'd he say? Fishing with his kid? We go stumbling around up there looking for him in the dark, and we'll blow the whole thing. I say we hole up somewhere nearby, and get out there are first light and do it."

Marty frowned and finally nodded. "Fishing," he muttered. "You know this guy, Daye?"

Randy shook his head, and eased the car over into the fast lane.

"Yeah, well, I do," the other man let out a sigh and picked up the map again, "and I woulda never pegged him for the fishing type."

00000

McCormick didn't think of himself as a fisherman. The first time the judge had hauled him to a lake and gotten him all rigged out and showed him what to do with the rod and the line, he'd felt faintly ridiculous. But he'd done as he was told and the result had been fish. He'd figured that was what was supposed to happen. After all, that's what they called it—'fishing'.

It wasn't until after they'd gotten home, and he'd overheard Hardcastle relating his exploits on the phone to Frank Harper, that he'd gotten the notion that there was supposed to be more to it than that—a certain amount of effort, some patient suffering even. It was an art, a science, a _vocation_.

You were not supposed to just go out there and catch fish.

'Beginner's luck' the judged had muttered, but that failed to account for his continued good fortune. Not universal and inevitable, but damn consistent. And he wasn't exactly a beginner anymore. But Sonny was. Mark squinted at the tangle he'd made of his gear all in the simple act of getting it to the edge of the water.

He laid that rod and reel aside. "I'll straighten it out later. We're losing the light." He picked up his own—his favorite, and he couldn't explain why—with the fly he'd already attached to the leader.

"Watch," he said, as he picked his spot and, with a flick and a gentle shurring, sent the fly dancing over the water.

A flash of iridescence out on the surface, already red-flecked with sunset. A tickle on the line that was transmuted to a solid tug as he set the hook. He smiled to himself. He wished Hardcastle was here to see it. _And on the first cast_.

"That's amazing," he said as he started to work the line.

"What?"

He glanced aside at Sonny and almost lost his concentration. Of course the guy didn't get it. He wasn't a fisherman. Then he refocused, sparing no more thought to that.

00000

That had been the end of the lesson, but Sonny hadn't seemed too disappointed. They had a nice six-pounder to show for it and for once Mark had remembered the lemon.

He hadn't subjected the older man to the cleaning and filleting process—no reason to put him off his feed. Now the fire had settled down to coals and the smell of grilling trout mingled with the wood smoke. Even Sonny was looking interested.

"So that's all there is to it, huh?"

Mark lifted one eyebrow. Such were the perils of making something look easy.

00000

Twilight passed into night—a night made darker by the encroaching clouds

"It's gonna rain," Mark said.

Sonny looked up, the firelight picking out lines of worry on his face.

"We've got a tent," Mark added. "We'll be okay. Just go light on the beer."

"Huh?"

"So you don't have to get up in the middle of the night, you know?"

"Ahh." Sonny smiled. "Got it." He looked over at the tent, off in the shadows just beyond the reach of the firelight, then up again at the obviously starless sky. "I'm glad you brought one."

McCormick chuckled. "Oh, I always do. And an air mattress and a sleeping bag, too, and beer, and a lemon, and band-aids . . . except for that time up in Oregon, but that wasn't a camping trip . . . that was more like an accident that required camping."

Sonny nodded. He hadn't been his usual boisterous self since dinner.

"You feeling all right?" Mark finally asked.

"Oh . . . yeah, fine." Sonny shrugged.

It was silence, and it was awkward. There were questions Mark had wanted to ask about the past, but he'd given up on all of that, and now it seemed like the future was off-limits as well.

"I think I'm going to turn in early," he finally said. "I was out kind of late last night." He frowned. He didn't want to get into any of that, either—his past, and his future. All there was left was this weekend, so he focused on it. "And the fishing is usually pretty good first thing in the morning. Have to roll out pretty early, though."

Sonny nodded, took a swig of beer, and said, "I think I'll just sit here a while longer."

Mark left him to whatever it was he had to think through, after eliciting a promise to be sure the fire was out before he left it. McCormick ordinarily wouldn't have trusted him with even that responsibility, but the threat of rain had become nearly a certainty and the coals were already down to the merest embers.

He got up slowly, stretched some of the stiffness out, and secured their supplies against bears, both the tree climbing and the tree uprooting varieties. Then he sauntered off to bed.

He was in his sleeping bag and already half-dozing—the end result of a tumultuous two days—when he heard it—low, very soft, not the man's usual style at all. Not a _performance_, more like a reverie, and no words to go with it at all. But after a few more notes he thought he recognized it, and a moment later he was certain.

It was 'Strangers in the Night'.

00000

It was a gray morning, with the clouds hanging low and the smell of damp earth from the night's thunderstorm. Randy liked being out at first light, getting the jump on things, stealing a march on the enemy and showing up at the least expected moment.

They'd parked the rental car well off the road and reconnoitered on foot, not encountering anyone else up and about. There'd been one campsite, obviously a family, still abed, but with children's bicycles leaning against a tree. They'd steered well around it and headed up further along the path, now merely two muddy ruts.

Marty muttered something, and then, more clearly, said, "How the hell far are we supposed to walk?"

Randy frowned at him. It hadn't been more than a couple of miles so far and it ought to have been clear that driving in would have attracted too much attention.

"I dunno," the man continued, "maybe we oughta go back and wait for 'em. We could get them on the way out or something."

Randy hooked a thumb over his shoulder at the campsite now behind them. "And have the neighbors get all riled up and come looking?" he said in low tones. "Nah, this is perfect. With any luck they went way back up in the sticks. If we do this quietly, we can be out of here and back in Reno before anybody even misses him."

"Hell," Marty frowned, "that could be a couple a years with Daye. Trust me, nobody's gonna be looking for him."

"Yeah," Randy shrugged, "but it's not just him. I'm thinkin'," he added, "Mr. Florentino might be willing to up the price if we could fix it so the local guys don't look at the whole thing too close. Ya know?"

The other man hadn't stopped frowning, but now he raised an eyebrow in question.

Randy let out a breath. "I mean, we arrange it so they have their case all tied up right here with a nice bow. Got two guys, they shoot each other. Simple as that. Happens all the time."

"I thought she said it was his kid."

"'xactly," Randy said, with a sharp nod. "How many times you wanted to pop your old man?"

A slow smile blossomed on Marty's face. "Yeah," he said in appreciation, "you got a point there." The smile faded. "Kinda a long walk, though."

"Think of the bonus. Thinka how happy Mr. F.'ll be."

They trudged on, cheered by the thought.

00000

It was obvious, from the very gradual shifting of the light, that there wasn't going to be much of a dawn, and the skies might still hold some rain. For now, though, it had stopped, and the only sound was Sonny's rumbling snoring—not as deep as Hardcastle's but irritatingly irregular.

That was okay. Mark had slept long enough, and so deeply that he hadn't even heard the storm. It was obvious, though, as he crawled out of the tent and looked around, that there'd been one, and would be more to come. He wandered down to the edge of the lake, watched the clouds scudding and considered ways and means of pulling something out that would rival Hardcastle's catch of the previous year. He decided it wasn't worth it with the judge back in LA. He'd save that fish for their next trip.

He took care of business, and headed back into camp, checking the tarp he'd carefully placed over their small wood supply. He half-thought about starting a fire, but then decided that next dousing of rain would probably chase them out of there. They could pack up and go have a country breakfast at some roadside diner. Then he'd take Sonny home, grab his luggage, deliver him to LAX, and bid him farewell.

He stood there, hands in his pockets, scuffing the edge of the fire pit with the side of his shoe. He felt the tiniest twinge of guilt at the eagerness with which he considered that plan. Maybe what Hardcastle said was true, that the guy was trying and he ought to meet him halfway. He was beginning to suspect, though, that even at the halfway point, he'd never feel more than a casual and detached interest in the man. He was past even anger now.

He looked over his shoulder at the tent—still no signs of life from within, but it wasn't much past six a.m. He was in the middle of rethinking the idea about the fire—he could have one going in fifteen minutes or so, and a cup of coffee maybe ten minutes after that—when something caught his eye from the tree-covered upslope that rose behind their camp. _Hunters_. The thought flashed through his mind and was chased down a moment later by common sense—it wasn't legal season for anything in these parts.

But then, almost as quickly, he stopped to analyze just what it was that had set his mind running in that direction initially. _They're skulking around up there. _ He was almost certain there was more than one. He felt a sudden, urgent need to get out of this exposed position. _Nonsense, they can't be after you—no one even knows you're up here._

Well, Hardcastle knew and, right at this moment, he was profoundly relieved by that notion. And Sonny had known, at least briefly, before they'd left. Mark frowned, walking slowly toward the tent and, just as slowly, mentally retracing their movements in the last few moments they'd been at the estate.

The two—it was certainly at _least_ two—men up on the slope had stopped moving. He could only see the one, by a small flash of blue shirt among the green. Mark stooped and unzipped the door flap, slipping inside and lowering himself to the ground with a sigh of relief. It wasn't as though the nylon tent walls provided any protection whatsoever, it was just that he figured if their mysterious visitors intended to shoot, they'd most likely want clear targets.

_They're after Sonny. They're waiting for him to show._

He reached over and nudged the figure, half-sprawled out of his sleeping bag. No response. "Hey," he nudged again, sharper, "wake up." He kept his voice pitched very low, though he knew their observers were out of earshot of even ordinary voices.

This time he got a slurred 'Whua?'

"Come on, _up_," Mark said impatiently. "Listen, there's somebody out there, some guys, sneaking around."

Sonny's eyes were open now, and his momentary confusion seemed to be clearing rapidly. "What kinda guys?" he murmured.

"The kind that don't walk right down and introduce themselves. And I didn't hear a car, either, so I'm wondering where the hell they walked from, but mostly I'm wondering if they're after somebody in particular."

He watched Sonny's face. He'd already been going a little green, even before the punch-line.

"There might be a couple of guys who aren't too happy with me right now," Sonny admitted.

"Are they the kind who take care of their troubles themselves or hire professionals?" Mark asked impatiently.

"Oh," Sonny pulled himself up, half free. He ran his fingers through his hair, nervously, "I think I mighta kinda heard something about some money being offered."

"A _contract_?" Mark caught himself, and lowered his voice, and his hands, down a notch. "_Sonny_," he started up, lower but still with intensity, "you didn't think maybe you should've _mentioned _this to me, I mean, before we headed off into the middle of nowhere?"

Sonny was looking at him, albeit blankly. "Well," he finally said, "I thought the middle of nowhere sounded like a pretty good idea. I guess we shoulda gone to Vegas. Big place, lots of people, easy to get lost in the crowd."

Mark stared at him for a long, slow moment, then pinched the bridge of his nose.

"But what makes you think they're after _me_?" Sonny added brightly. "Might be you. You've made a few enemies, I'll bet."

"But I didn't tell anyone I was coming up here, except Hardcastle."

"Well, _I_ didn't—" Sonny stopped abruptly, frowned, then qualified it, "Only _one _person . . . really."

"When you went back in the house to pack?" Mark asked wearily.

"Yeah," he got a nod from his father, "nice girl I met in Reno. Her name's Celia. A dancer." He waggled his eyebrows two quick upward movements. "_Very_ nice girl. She asked me to call when I got into LA, so she'd know I was safe. I almost forgot to do it." The unfortunate reality had finally penetrated Sonny's inch-thick shell of dense obliviosity. He swallowed once, hard, and repeated, with slightly less certainty, "She's a nice girl."

"I'll bet," McCormick said dryly. He leaned back, eased open the flap of the tent just a crack and studied the slope. He saw no further movement. "We've got a problem. If that's what they're here about, they'll probably pick us off as soon as they're sure they've got the right camp site. Even if we stay holed up in here, eventually they'll make the first move."

They were both caught in that moment, considering the grim prospects, when the first heavy drop hit the tent roof. Mark almost started. The isolated drop was soon followed by another, then in increasing staccato clusters, loud on the taut nylon tent wall. McCormick scrabbled in his pocket pulling out the pocket knife he always carried on camping trips. He had it open a second later.

Now he had to raise his voice, to be heard over the cacophony of the storm. "Get your shoes on."

He tackled the back side of the tent, slicing through the wall horizontally near the bottom, then reaching out and loosening one of the stakes, so that the cut edge had some slack.

"Come on," he gestured to Sonny, "you first."

The older man looked dubious.

"Now," Mark insisted, "while the storm holds. They won't be expecting us to be headed out this way." He grabbed Sonny's shoulder and shoved him down, toward the opening. He watched the older man scramble through clumsily and then he stooped to follow, barely avoiding one last thrashing kick.

There were both on the other side, floundering in the pounding rain, The lack of visibility exceeded even Mark's expectations and he was momentarily disoriented once he hauled Sonny away from the tent. "Stay down, this way," he leaned in close to the other man and grabbed his arm, dragging him to the right.

"But the car—"

"It's on the other side of camp from here. Too risky."

No doubt that would be exactly where the two other men would head, toward the car, parked alongside the road out, once they lost sight of the tent and its occupants. Mark hauled a hard right in the opposite direction. Just put a little space between them and their pursuers and they could double back 'round—on the far side of the lake if necessary.

They slipped and stumbled in the mud, but the storm had swallowed up what morning light there had been, offering only sharp blue-white flashes of lightning. If any shots were being fired in their direction, they were indistinguishable from the peals of thunder. Mark tugged Sonny up, off the lakeside path and onto the wooded slope, well north of the camp.

He slid to a halt, behind a fallen log recent enough gone to still have some branches. He was panting, and he could hear Sonny, more breathless still.

He wiped the water from his eyes and pushed the wet hair out of his face. "We need to keep moving."

Sonny could only manage a nod, apparently, and didn't make any immediate move to follow him as Mark got into a crouching stance.

"Really," he said, "_now_. This storm won't hold and they'll figure out what we've done as soon as they get over to the tent."

He glanced back down the slope to the narrow portion of the lake that could be seen from their current position. There was no movement there yet, but his sightline was at right angles to the camp, and their pursuers might already be headed this way. He sighed impatiently as Sonny staggered to his feet. It was nothing even approaching a crouch, but at least he was moving.

00000

As Sunday mornings went, this one wasn't half-bad, despite the steady patter of rain against the window of the den. Hardcastle had his Sunday paper—mostly dry—and a cup of coffee. He felt a twinge of guilt about Mark and Sonny, but it was possible that Pearl Lake had been spared the deluge—possible, but not likely.

He supposed that a little adversity might be just the thing to lend itself to the heart-to-heart conversation that Mark and his father never seemed to have gotten around to having. That was possible, too. Or it might be that once they rolled out and saw just how bad things were, they'd pack up and high-tail it home.

Hardcastle redirected his attention to the paper, determined to get through the important parts before he had to wrestle with two guys for the remains. He'd buried his nose back in the sports section and was giving due consideration to the Dodgers' chances of crawling up over five hundred—he didn't think that was too likely, either—when he heard the engine of an unfamiliar car in the driveway.

He glanced up and over his shoulder, frowning. It was a sedan, curiously devoid of any touches of individuality or unnecessary chrome—a fleet car—and its appearance in his driveway, early on a Sunday morning, could only mean one thing. Trouble.

He was on his feet and at the door before the sedan's occupant had even gotten a finger on the doorbell. The man covered his surprise well. He was properly besuited in the usual understated business attire of an FBI agent.

Hardcastle cut to the chase. "You're looking for a guy named Sonny Daye?"

The agent, his hand already delving into his pocket, undoubtedly to produce ID as a prelude to making demands, froze, then blinked once. This time he hadn't done such a hot job with the surprise. He looked as if someone had stepped in and ripped a couple of pages out of the script. He looked miffed.

"AKA Tommy Knight," he muttered sullenly, making a valiant effort to get at least part of his line out. "You know where he is?"

Hardcastle waited, pointedly, for the ID to be produced, gave it a quick but thorough study and stepped aside to let him in. He gestured toward the den and the leather chair opposite his desk and seat.

He sat down, and waited for the other man to do the same. "Agent, ah, Caulkin," he said, staying just as calm as was humanly possible under the circumstances, "I may be able to help you, but do you want to tell me what's going on—why you want to find Mr. Daye?"

Agent Caulkin didn't, that much was obvious, but he'd apparently also done his homework and knew he was not dealing with someone who was easily cowed by the awe and majesty of the Bureau. He sat rather rigidly in the chair, frowning. He looked like he was about to resort to the bureaucratic 'we'.

"_We_," he said firmly, "have reason to believe that Mr. Daye may have been targeted by someone whom he had agreed to testify against."

Hearing it spoken out loud fanned the embers of Hardcastle's inner suspicions into open flame. He heard a particularly strong cuss word sitting right there in the air in front of him and realized it had issued from him, unbidden.

"Pearl Lake," he said, trying to get back some of his self-control. He thought, with quick, sharp regret, about how he'd told the kid to meet Sonny halfway, as if past experience hadn't already demonstrated that meeting Sonny anywhere was a bad idea. "He's with a friend of mine, his son, Mark McCormick. It's a place north of here, in the mountains."

Caulkin already had a notebook out, and was jotting in it. He glanced up and said, "Do you have a number there, where we could reach him?"

"It's a lake," the judge said impatiently. "They went _fishing_. They left yesterday morning."

The agent seemed to ignore the irritation in his tone, only frowning down briefly at what he'd written and then looking up again. "I need to use a phone."

Hardcastle pushed his across the desk and the man dialed and spoke, relaying the location to what sounded like his superior.

"I know the area," Hardcastle interjected. "It's pretty remote. I know the spot they'll probably be at."

Caulkin looked up from the phone, then, without too much resistance, paraphrased the judge's remarks into the receiver. Some silence followed on his end, punctuated only by a couple of 'uh-huh's and a briskly professional 'Of course, sir'."

Hardcastle couldn't make out which way things were going and finally interjected a sharp, "Doesn't matter what you all agree on; I'm going up there—whether it's with you or on my own."

It wasn't clear if that remark had played any influence on the outcome—Caulkin hung up the receiver a moment later without having said much more than 'see you in a little while' to the person on the other end.

"_Well_?"

"They're putting together a strike force—we'll meet them in the nearest town south of the lake—"

The judge heaved a sigh—satisfaction, if not exactly relief. "That's Miller's Crossing. It's just a grocery, a gas station, and a dozen houses."

"That's the place," Caulkin nodded. "You ready?"

00000

The violence of the storm had taken them by surprise. There'd been nothing to do but hunker down and take it—like standing in a shower fully dressed, with water running under collars and soaking through outer layers all the way to the skin. Randy heard his partner cussing, low and steady—a rumble in counterpoint to the thunder.

For a while they hadn't even been able to see more than a vague general outline of the tent in the clearing below, not that it seemed likely that their quarry would chose this moment to make a break for it. Still, Randy frowned, and as soon as things let up just a little, he slipped his weapon from inside his jacket. It was a 9mm Ruger with an integrated suppressor. It barely qualified as a concealed weapon but its silence more than compensated for its ungainly length.

The rain had subsided to a drizzle and there was still no sign of movement from the tent the man had slipped into.

"I'm going down," he said with abrupt finality.

Marty didn't argue with him. They gave up their more hidden position for a rapid descent to the camp. Randy was still frowning. From where he stood, the tent revealed nothing. He glanced aside at his partner and gave a quick shrug—better safe than sorry. Then he turned back to the tent, leveling his weapon and assuming a practiced, professional stance.

The Ruger, as usual, was gratifyingly quiet. His nine shots were placed to perforate the nylon wall at precise and unsurvivable intervals. When he was done, the structural damage was barely visible.

There'd been no cries or shouts, and no movement—not even a fluttering of the tent wall as it was pierced with almost surgical precision. Marty's _'dammit' _coincided with Randy's sinking feeling. It had been just a little too easy.

Marty reached forward and yanked the zipper of the front flap. He crouched and peered in through the opening, repeating his curse and a string of others with more volume. Randy stepped up behind him, looking over his shoulder into the empty tent. It was clear that his bullets hadn't caused the rip near the bottom of the back wall of the tent, and nothing had died at their hands except the two slowly deflating air mattresses.

Randy circled around to the back of the tent with Marty close behind him. They studied the soggy ground for a moment. The disturbance was obvious, but there was nothing even approaching distinct footprints. There was no sense of direction to the marks, but it was apparent that there was only one way their quarry could have gone.

"There," Randy pointed north, using the barrel of the Ruger, "up that way. Sonny's gotta be with him; he's the only one who woulda run like that."

Marty nodded.

Randy pulled a fresh clip from his pocket and reloaded the gun. "We'll get 'em," he said, confidently. "They can't have much of a head start. Just a little set-back."

00000

Having gotten Sonny on his feet and moving, Mark headed them further up the hill. The going was tougher that way, but the cover was thicker as well, not that any of it would stop a bullet, even just a randomly placed lucky shot. They hadn't gone much more than another quarter-mile before his father started to falter and fall behind.

Mark drew up, casting a nervous glance back down the hill and seeing nothing. His heart was pounding, but he wasn't sure how much of it was their headlong, uphill flight, or just the adrenalin catching up with him. Sonny had sunk to the ground, bracing himself against a trunk, his breathing harsh and fast.

"Good thing . . . I gave up smoking," he panted.

Mark dragged his gaze from the nearly impenetrable tangle that lay ahead of them, to the man sitting in a sweaty heap at his feet. He shook his head in disbelief and finally said, "They're probably about ten minutes behind us, and the ground is wet. We're leaving a trail."

"Yeah," his father shrugged, "things ain't looking so hot."

"So we gotta keep moving. You gotta get up."

Sonny made no positive effort, only a second, fractional shrug. He wasn't making eye contact anymore.

"Sonny Daye never ran from anybody—" he muttered.

"Like hell you didn't," Mark said, hard and abrupt. "You ran like a rabbit. You ought to be good at it by now. Now get up, dammit, and let's get going."

The older man looked at him, saying nothing in protest but still not up on his feet. The mutual stare lasted about five seconds and finally Sonny said, in a tone entirely different from his usual nonchalance, "I'm the one they want. I'm the one they're here for. I figure once they get me, they'll call it a day."

Mark winced, but Sonny went on, appearing oblivious to the unintentional play on words.

"Look, kid, there's no reason for both of us to die."

Mark shook his head sharply. "There's no reason for _either_ of us to die." He leaned over and yanked the other man by his forearm. "I'm not gonna spend the rest of my life second guessing myself on this one. We'll _both _run like rabbits—now, while we still have a chance, okay?" He tugged harder and his father finally staggered to his feet, looking at least temporarily reconciled to living a little longer.

00000

The strike team had the frowsy look of guys who'd been up all night, maybe longer, and hadn't had much time for such niceties as shaving. Hardcastle was easily the the most rested one in the bunch, and the most impatient as well. Caulkin had passed him off to a senior agent named Atterman, who was apparently the guy in charge of the project. They were waiting, some more relaxed than others, as the rest of the strike force arrived in ones and twos.

Atterman broke away from a one-sided discussion with someone from the sheriff's department and lifted one eyebrow in question as Hardcastle was introduced. He, too, must've had the background sketched in, because he actually offered a handshake and a précis.

"Celia Simone—aka Carol Simmons. We hadn't gotten the warrant yet to tap her, but we had one for her phone records," he said. "She worked in one of Albert Florentino's establishments in Reno. Looks like Mr. Daye was working at the same club. He witnessed a murder—the big man himself pulling the trigger on a guy named Jake Sands.

"Daye came to us—we told him to accept protective custody, maybe witness protection. He said he had a couple of things to do first; then he took off without letting us know."

The story, winding backward and forward, ended with Atterman's weary shrug. "So here we are. Who the hell woulda thought the guy'd pick this weekend to go fishing?"

"It wasn't exactly his idea," Hardcastle said, "but he never said a word about being on the lam from a mobster—or hiding out from the Bureau, either." He squinted as a yet another car pulled up, dislodging two more guys inappropriately dressed for a tromp in the woods. "That it? Can we get moving now?"

They did, eventually, in the halting, inefficient manner of committees everywhere. They consolidated into two vehicles: a car—with Atterman and Caulkin in front, and Hardcastle in back, to point out the way—followed by a van, hauling the rest of the search party and their equipment. The sheriff's two marked cars brought up the rear.

As the road turned into ruts, Atterman's expression grew more questioning.

"Favorite spot," the judge said. "Caught a big one here last year. It's pretty out of the way." Hardcastle felt his hopes rising. "What are the odds that Florentino's guys would even know where to start looking?"

Atterman glanced back over his shoulder. "All we know is yesterday morning he dispatched two off his best by plane to LA—that and Ms. Simone had gotten a call from your location about two hours beforehand. So if those guys never showed up at your house yesterday, they must've had a better idea than we did about where to start looking."

Caulkin braked and said, "Look."

The car had halted now. He was pointing off to the right. The back end of a car was barely visible, pulled off into the brush at the side of the road. Atterman and Hardcastle got out and gave it a quick, closer look, touching nothing.

"A rental," the senior agent said grimly.

One of the sheriff's deputies was attached to that project. To Hardcastle's relief, they didn't hang around to find out the result of that inquiry. He already suspected the name and the ID use to procure the car would be fake. His carefully nurtured hope had shriveled back into palpable fear.

"But if it's still here," Atterman said, "they probably haven't finished the contract yet."

Hardcastle nodded, clinging to that option, fully aware that the _job_ was Sonny. Mark would be just collateral damage.

The rest of the drive didn't take too long. It was only another mile or so. They passed one other set of campers on the way in, and the other sheriff's car peeled off to escort them out of the area. Toward the end of the path, the brush was almost touching the car on either side. Hardcastle gauged it carefully, then told Caulkin to stop.

"'Bout another fifty feet," he said quietly.

Atterman nodded, got out of the car and gestured to the driver of the van as it pulled up behind him.

He turned back to the judge. "You ought to—"

"You don't even know exactly who this Florentino guy sent," Hardcastle interrupted sharply. "And you didn't have time to pull up a picture of McCormick. You want a civilian to get shot by mistake? I'm going with."

As if to reinforce this, he started down the path toward the clearing, leaving the others scrambling to catch up. Caulkin hustled past him to assume the point position, but no one made any attempt to interfere with his participation. The judge was relieved—he was in no mood to duke it out with these guys. He'd already caught sight of the left rear quarter of the truck, parked at the place where the path opened into the clearing.

"That's my truck," he said quietly to Atterman.

He watched the agent gesture toward the men behind them, fanning them out into the woods on either side. Hardcastle approached the vehicle cautiously, and, seeing nothing amiss, used it as cover to survey the campsite. It looked deserted. The judge frowned and stepped into the clearing, ignoring the hissing protest of Atterman.

He spared one glance down at the soggy fire pit. There were no signs of any attempt at fire-building this morning, but it looked like there'd been a deluge not too long before they'd gotten there.

There was something wrong about the tent. It sagged, its damp sides flapping loosely. He was close enough now to see the holes, neatly perforating the side. The front flap was unzipped, and he reached forward, pushing it aside.

_Empty_, except for the sleeping bags, lying on flattened air mattresses, his tackle box, one side shattered in, and a puddle along the back wall, where a long edge of loose nylon fluttered damply. No blood, no blood at all.

He was breathing again.

"They're gone," he said, looking over his shoulder at Atterman, and fully aware that the pursuers had also departed. "They _were_ here but they got out through the back."

The senior agent surveyed the same evidence. He headed around to the back of the tent with Hardcastle at his heels, both looking down, carefully studying the ground.

"Must've still been raining when they took off," Atterman said, staring out into the misty grey.

The judge nodded in agreement. "Didn't leave much in the way of prints, but that'll change if we can pick up the trail ahead a ways. The rain must've eased up pretty soon after they took off."

Atterman was summoning his troops and pulling out his own map. "We're going to need some back-up," he said.

"Yeah," Hardcastle scanned the woods to the north of the camp anxiously, "but we've got to start tracking them now." He was already edging off, inspecting the ground again, trying not to walk where there might be the hint of previous passages.

"_Wait_," Atterman said, looking irritated.

"_No_," Hardcastle replied sharply. "Listen," he hadn't paused, or even turned back. The agent was forced to follow in his wake or lose the thread of the conversation, "we can't wait for any more support to show up. Florentino's guys already have the jump on us and McCormick's not armed—I don't think Sonny is, either."

Atterman paused briefly, signaling his men to spread out and cover the lower reaches of the slope. Then he closed the space between himself and the judge. Caulkin moved up and joined them, weapon now at hand, looking wary.

00000

Randy pushed through yet another narrow spot. There wasn't a path anymore, just a general impression of places where the going might be slightly easier—as if someone else had forced their way through not long before. He'd lost track of how far they'd come, and had only a general notion that they were still headed north.

Twice he'd thought they'd narrowed the gap—something moving up ahead—only to find his shots had done nothing but stir leaves. The woods were full of movement: leaves, wet from the storm, small things shifting. It made a guy edgy, liable to snap off a round without giving it due consideration. Randy preferred concrete, sharp edges, and artificial lighting.

He heard Marty behind him, still muttering curses. "Will ya shut up," Randy hissed, soft and low. "Ya want 'em to hear us coming a mile off?"

Things got quieter for a moment. Randy paused, catching his breath and then, once that had settled, listening carefully. Movements, sounds—might be voices, but too far off to make anything out of the words. He thought it was coming from behind and below, but he'd decided that was tricky out here.

He leaned back toward Marty's ear. "I think we're getting closer."

The other man said nothing. He was listening, too, and was obviously not entirely convinced by the encouragement. He gestured once sharply, with his chin. Randy turned and headed upslope again, with more urgency. He had his weapon drawn and ready.

00000

Twice McCormick had tried to cut back down toward the lake, hoping they'd gotten far enough ahead of their pursuers to stay out of sight. Twice he'd heard sounds, not clearly, but most likely voices, and had to double back up again, wasting precious minutes and flagging energy. Now he was convinced there were more than two people hunting them.

He let Sonny rest for a moment, which was probably a mistake. As soon as he'd stopped pushing him forward, the man sank down, obviously winded.

"I think maybe we shoulda gone to Las Vegas," Sonny murmured, mostly to himself. Then he added, a little louder but still uncommonly quiet, "Don't know how much further I can go. These guys aren't gonna give up and it sounds like there's a bunch of 'em." He looked glum, defeated, exhausted.

"Uh-uh," Mark shook his head. "We already went over that. We aren't done for, yet, and we aren't quitting. I've already bought my books for next semester." He tried for a cocky grin, knowing it was falling short. They were running out of climbable slope, with more rocky outcroppings that gave neither footing nor cover.

But the attitude seemed to work. Sonny looked up at him, mirroring his grin.

"Okay, kid, never say 'die'—must be a family trait."

He struggled up, McCormick lending him a hand under the elbow. They started off again, with Mark dropping behind the other man, to make certain he didn't lag. They'd only gone a dozen feet when they came to yet another barren patch, high enough now that he could see the glint of the lake over the tops of the trees. He was glancing back, amazed at how far they'd come, when he heard a loud 'umph' from Sonny.

He turned sharply, just in time to see the man go down on one knee, with that foot, his right one, jammed at an angle in a small crevice in the rock. He hurried forward, too late to be of any use. The man's face had gone a peculiar shade of green-white and was slick with sweat. Mark reached toward Sonny's ankle. It was visibly deformed and Sonny yelped when he touched it.

"Broke?" the man asked, and then, answering his own question, "Yeah, I heard it pop."

Mark pulled back from any further inspection. It was obvious that the older man was right.

"We don't have time to do anything about it," he said quickly. "Get your arm around my shoulder and lemme take some of the weight off it. We'll manage."

Sonny looked at him like he'd grown a second head. The noises downhill from them were more clearly voices now, though it was still not possible to make out the words.

"This isn't gonna work," Sonny said in a tone so low that McCormick had to lean in to hear him." We can't get up any higher with me on one leg and you taking the load."

"I _know_," Mark replied, equally quiet despite the intensity of his words. "We'll just have to angle back down and hope we stay ahead of 'em."

Sonny was still staring. "I don't get it," he finally said, as Mark maneuvered him into position and took charge of things.

"What's to get?" Mark said with a slight hint of exasperation. "There isn't any alternative."

"Sure there is," Sonny said. "You high-tail it out of here."

"Without you? Just leave you here—cut and run?"

"Yeah," his father replied. It had come out almost matter-of-factly.

"It doesn't work that way," McCormick said, still quiet, but with a sharp edge to it. He'd started them off downhill, picking his way carefully through the rocks, heading for the closest cover. He was hard-pressed to explain his reasoning,

"But _I'm_ the one they're after," Sonny said, still sounding mystified, "and I know these kind of guys; they find us both, they'll kill you, too. They don't want any witnesses."

"It doesn't matter," Mark said, hearing the stubbornness in his tone and wondering where the hell it had come from. Sonny was right. This was stupid.

"These are crappy odds," Sonny muttered, but he leaned a little harder.

"That doesn't matter either. We get out together or not at all, okay?"

His father had no reply to that. The whole conversation had taken place at level hardly more than a whisper. Now they both fell silent, the only sound being their feet against the broken rocks and their increasingly labored breathing. They made it into the trees on the down-slope side of that outcropping. Mark felt a rush of relief, though it was hardly enough cover to provide any safety.

He paused to let them both catch their breath, then he moved forward again but felt Sonny hesitate. This time the irritation flashed up into anger, hardly blunted by the need for silence.

"I told you," he said, low and harsh and almost right into Sonny's ear, "it doesn't work that way." He took a breath, trying to calm himself. "You're not going to make me _choose_."

The older man grimaced, but took another hopping step before he answered. "Maybe," he panted, "this is _my_ turn to do something right for a change. Maybe _I_ don't want to live with the consequences if you stay here and help me."

McCormick supposed 'the consequences' might mean something as concrete as Hardcastle, but it was possible his father was thinking in nobler, more abstract terms. They'd gone a few more steps, but it was painfully slow, even with the benefit of the downhill grade.

"Don't worry," he sighed. "The way things are going, I don't think either one of us is going to have to deal with it."

As if to prove himself right, he saw some movement out of the corner or his eye. He froze and then, a moment later, dropped down into a crouch, dragging his father with him. It was no use. Sonny had groaned and there wasn't enough cover to hide them, even in that position.

The figure, now in view, had an automatic with a strangely long barrel. _A silencer_, Mark thought, in the distracted way in which a man notices details when looking at impending doom.

"Sorry, kid," Sonny said.

00000

Randy had heard it first, some sound down back, behind them. He'd grabbed Marty by the arm and hauled him to a silent stop. They'd both listened, still quiet, until they were both clearly certain. Gestures and a very quiet conference followed, with Marty delegated to backtrack down and find out who else had shown up. Splitting up was a risk, but they wanted no stray campers to wander in on their operation, and neither one of them was willing to just give up and slink off with the quarry so nearly in view.

Randy watched his partner slip back down through the trees, gone out of sight within a few yards. He turned and proceeded cautiously up again, gun still drawn. He had no reason, so far, to believe his victims were armed, but it didn't pay to take chances.

There was a clearing ahead, an open, rocky space. He peered out across it, not yet leaving the security of the trees. He frowned in puzzlement. He saw no one, and he'd thought he been fairly close behind them. To the right was an even steeper, more barren rise. _They went left, back down to the lake._

He turned sharply, back into the cover, picking up his pace. It would be better to go around them, take them by surprise. He moved in more complete silence, quick but with every attempt at stealth. He was rewarded with the sounds of whispered voices, not far ahead and off a little to his right.

It was obvious that something was wrong. The discussion sounded heated. He smiled, picking his way down, giving them a slightly wider berth, then waited, patiently, gun at the ready, until they drew even with him again.

00000

The strike force was made up of city boys, Hardcastle had concluded, and city boys weren't used to working on uneven surfaces. Of course Mark was a city kid, too, while Sonny was just plain incompetent, and their pursuers were most likely urban hunters as well, otherwise Mark and Sonny never would have made it out of the campsite alive.

But the overall result was a whole lot of stumbling around and more noise than Hardcastle was happy with. He'd drawn aside from the rest—not hard to do under the circumstances—but so far he'd been careful not to get ahead; he didn't want to accidentally draw fire. From where he was he could still hear the team, fanned out and beating the bush. He grimaced, paused, and tried to ignore the more proximate sources of sound.

Standing quietly, he thought he heard something from further off and higher up, but that was suddenly swallowed up by shouts of 'Drop it, _freeze_—hands where we can see 'em.' And then, a short moment later, a more triumphant announcement, 'We got one of 'em.'

_One of them._

There was no hearing anything now, except the team members hustling in to where the capture had been made. It would take Atterman a moment or two to straighten them out and then the search would fan out from there. The judge didn't turn and join them. He didn't have the patience to wait for further orders. He struck out, quickly, but as quiet as possible, up the slope, angling away from the others.

00000

There was no point in getting up and no possibility of fleeing. Sonny was slumped at his side, his arm still draped over Mark's shoulder. The man who was approaching them hadn't said a word. It wasn't necessary—his intent was clear and if they tried any moves it would merely hasten the end by a few seconds.

There was a sudden noise, muted shouts from a ways off. Even that didn't draw the man's eye, though his expression of satisfaction flickered momentarily. Obviously he wasn't pleased with that turn of events, but first things first and he wasn't going to let it interfere with a job.

Then Sonny moved again, grunting and easing his arm off Mark's shoulder. It was all done slowly, with infinite caution.

"Look," he said, "I know Mr. F. sent ya, but you oughta know it's all a big misunderstanding. Heck," he broached a smile—patently it was a worried one, but still a smile, "he's probably been trying to reach you practically since you left his office. We go way back me and him."

Mark looked on in dawning amazement. Through the whole thing, Sonny had been edging away from his side. It was so slow as to be almost imperceptible, and covered by the expansive gestures of a man who wants very much to be believed, but at some point the gun and the eyes could no longer take both of them in.

It hadn't been subtle enough. "Stay put," the man said. "He wants you dead."

Mark coiled for a spring. It was only fractionally less hopeless than just sitting there and taking a bullet, and Sonny had bought him an extra half-second in reaction time.

He heard his father say, "No, _really_—"

He wasn't sure if it was courage or nerves, but Sonny was apparently intent on going down talking. He felt himself tense, he pictured the lunge and he saw exactly how the gun would track his way and most likely catch him in mid-leap.

And then there was an unexpected shout, and all hell broke loose.

00000

He moved fast, with an increasing sense of urgency, no longer worrying about getting in the way of the strike team's fire. He'd seen a couple of spots where there'd been earlier traffic, apparent even to the casual glance, and past the place where at least one person had turned back. No more shouts, though, and more important, no shots.

An open spot—if Mark and Sonny had taken that route, he was certain their pursuers would have already caught up with them—he swung downhill from there, back into the trees. Then he heard it, a barked order not to move, and he lunged forward, through the brush.

00000

Mark was up, on his feet. The movement that had caught his eye had also made the hit man turn, suddenly caught between foes. McCormick heard the 'thfft'—more a compression of air than a sound, though even at that volume it conveyed a feeling of force. It was buried, almost at once, in the thunderous reverberation of Hardcastle's .45.

Their assailant staggered back one step and looked astonished. His weapon began to rise again, and, in the ringing silence that follows loud sudden noise, Mark heard the judge's voice as though muted.

"Put it _down_."

Maybe the gunman didn't hear, or maybe he couldn't live with the consequences either. The gun kept rising until the judge's second shot knocked the man backwards, off his feet.

Hardcastle made no immediate move. It was Mark who gave the fallen man a closer, though still wary, inspection.

"Dead," he said, nudging the weapon out of reach. It was force of habit—or self-doubt. It didn't matter which; he did it anyhow.

He glanced up again at the judge, still standing. He probably hadn't heard—he was probably as deaf as Mark himself felt. Standing, but maybe swaying a bit. McCormick's feeling of relief was almost immediately overridden by confused worry.

"Are you—" He didn't get the 'okay?' out before he saw him start to totter. He moved to intercept and caught him, at least slowing the drop to his knees.

"Where?" he asked urgently, suddenly remembering the first, silenced shot. This time he was close enough, and loud enough, that he was certain he'd been heard. No immediate answer—he thought maybe the judge himself wasn't sure. "Lemme see."

"Ah . . . my side," Hardcastle finally muttered.

"Yeah," Mark said, looking down at his own hand, come away from the man's right side. Not a lot of blood so far. He pulled the polo shirt up. Not the chest, thank God—lower. "All the way through," he added. He sat him down; he would have preferred to have him lie down, but Hardcastle wasn't cooperating.

"Is he okay?" It was Sonny, and Mark realized with a start that he'd completely forgotten about him.

"Shot," he said impatiently, and then, to the judge, "You didn't head up here on your own, I hope. You brought backup?"

"Oh, yeah," Hardcastle murmured, "a whole bunch of 'em." He jerked his thumb in the direction of camp, but the gesture was hardly necessary. Mark could hear them now; the ringing noise in his ears was fading, and he could see some movement—men approaching with caution.

"Over here," he said, trying to sound non-threatening and very cooperative. Everyone had to be pretty nervous by now. He had one hand supporting Hardcastle, and kept the other in plain sight.

"What the hell?" The guy who looked in charge of this new bunch wasn't dressed for hiking. "You're shot?" He frowned the frown of a man who is going to have a lot of explaining to do to Higher Authority.

"Musta gotten a little ahead of you." The judge looked up at him, not sounding too sheepish about it. "This is McCormick. That's Atterman. FBI. You got a dead guy over there. Sorry." He didn't sound all that sorry, either.

The other agents were already doing their own inspection. Caulkin looked up from the corpse, nodding an affirmative. "Looks familiar," he said.

Atterman let out a long breath in what appeared to be barely controlled aggravation.

"He's shot, too," Mark reminded him, still down at Hardcastle's side, with one hand back on the wound. The shirt was sticky now, though some of that was sweat. "We're gonna need to get him out of here. And I think Sonny's got a busted ankle," he added as an afterthought.

The senior agent seemed slightly more pleased when he caught sight of his wayward witness, who did look both sheepish and sorry.

"Well," the FBI agent said, slightly more cheerful, "can't argue with results, I suppose."

00000

Hardcastle said a rescue helicopter was a lot of folderol for nothing. Mark said it was good practice for them, and, besides, those guys _liked_ rescuing people, and it would get Atterman back faster so he could start on his paperwork. The fact that the judge gave in to these arguments was a clear indication to McCormick that the helicopter was a good idea. Mark got his way and Hardcastle got an IV and a stretcher.

And Sonny—who seemed to be bouncing back from their brush with death faster than was really right—remarked cheerfully, "Camping is a lot more exciting than I thought."

00000

The hospital proved anticlimactic. Sonny was shunted off, early on, to have his ankle dealt with. Mark noticed Caulkin was in close attendance.

Hardcastle got to say 'I told you so', sort of. The trauma doc said nothing vital had been damaged, but since it took a couple of hours and several procedures to determine that, McCormick felt fairly vindicated.

"And we'll want to repeat your blood count in about four hours," the doc added. "If that's okay we'll release you, but you'll have to take it easy for a week or so."

McCormick, in the chair on the other side of the gurney, said 'hah' half to himself. Then they were left more or less in peace.

Mark eased back in his chair, wondering if he looked half a tired as he felt. Dawn, such as it had been, was far behind them. The judge, after being poked, prodded, injected, and x-rayed for a good two hours, looked like he could use a nap, too, but his eyes were still open and his gaze was a little too penetrating for McCormick's liking.

The silence didn't hold for very long. First came a general inquiry.

"You okay?"

Mark startled, though he ought to have been expecting it. "_I'm_ not the one who got shot," he said, maybe a bit defensively.

Hardcastle shrugged, then winced, which spoiled the effect, but he still wasn't looking like a guy who was going to just doze off and let things be. McCormick settled back a little further.

"Okay," Hardcastle said. "But you didn't really answer the question."

"Yeah," Mark grumbled, "I'm fine."

There was another short interlude. The judge looked pensive. He finally said, "Don't suppose you got around to that heart-to-heart talk you were hoping for."

McCormick considered this for a moment. "Well," he said, "maybe not _exactly_ the one I was hoping for, but we did talk some."

He couldn't tell from the judge's expression if this was being received as good or bad news. Mark looked away, a little nervous, and finally cleared his throat.

"It was strange. On the way up he was talking about going away. When the hell has he ever worried about me knowing where he'd be?" He shook his head. "So I figured something was up. I was thinking maybe he'd finally got himself in a corner and was going to make a deal with the feds." He smiled wryly. "I didn't know how tight the corner was, that's all."

He saw the judge wasn't smiling. He tamped his own back down into something more sober just in time to hear the older man say, "'Tight', huh? Looked to me like you were both about ten seconds away from a couple of bullets."

Mark didn't try to deny it. He just nodded once, very soberly, and said, "Yeah, ten . . . maybe five . . . Thank you."

The judge waved that away.

"I dunno," McCormick said. "It was weird. I mean, that he would come to me, want _me_ to know about it, at least sortof . . . I think he was scared."

"Scared of Florentino?"

"Well, yeah, _that_—but maybe more afraid of the whole witness protection thing. Sonny Daye is all he has, really. He doesn't have anyone else, and the feds sure as hell won't let him go on being Sonny." Mark frowned, studying a spot on the floor between his chair and the gurney. "It's harder than you think . . . to change, I mean—to become someone else."

"You're the one who's always telling me it's possible," the judge chided gently.

"Possible," Mark sighed, "but not easy."

"Well," Hardcastle said, this time the shrug was smaller, "if he does, fine. It's not your choice, not even really your problem."

Mark raised his eyes slowly, considering this. "Yeah," he said," that's what I would have said, too."

He saw that Hardcastle was frowning again. He looked like he had something more to say but was, uncharacteristically, holding it in. The silence drew out for only a few seconds, with the judge's eyes growing stormier.

"He almost got you _killed_."

"Yeah," Mark said. "That's twice now." This time he didn't try to hide the wry smile. "He's still got a ways to go to get caught up to you."

He wasn't prepared for the look of guilty concern that had suddenly transfigured the older man's face.

"It's a _joke,_ Judge," he added hurriedly. "There's a difference." He didn't see much immediate improvement in Hardcastle's expression. "Look," he said, "all the times I've ever gotten into a fix with you around, you've never run out on me—and a lot of 'em weren't even your _fault_."

What was, to Mark, a fundamental and obvious difference, seemed to take a while to reassure the judge. Eventually, though, he seemed to grant it a grudging acceptance.

"All right, we've taken a lot of risks, but I hope we mostly took 'em with our eyes open."

"And with back-up," Mark nodded encouragingly, even though that had sometimes meant just one person at his back.

He settled down again, and saw, with relief, that the judge was doing the same. He wondered, vaguely, where Sonny was and whether the feds would be whisking him off without further farewells. He found, strangely, that the notion bothered him.

He must have been frowning out loud because Hardcastle said it again.

"You _sure_ you're okay?"

He said,"_Yes_." He tried to make it sound definitive but he thought it might have just come across as weary. A few more moments passed, with the judge not looking very convinced.

"Those heart-to-heart talks really take it out of a guy," Mark added ruefully. He shot a look over his shoulder toward the door to the examining room. "I wonder what they're doing with him."

"The docs, or the feds?" Hardcastle said dryly.

Mark glanced back at him. "It's been a while. You suppose they'll just take off with him as soon as he's got the cast on?"

"I thought you were looking for consistency."

McCormick's expression slipped from pensive to chagrined. "Yeah, well, I might have been a little hasty about that. I think . . ."

He'd hesitated, but was too late to turn back from it now; Hardcastle was listening attentively.

"I think maybe he _has_ changed . . . a little."

One eyebrow rose questioningly. Mark couldn't blame him; the part where Sonny hadn't mentioned he was being pursued by a hit man was still fresh in both their minds.

"See, after those guys showed up, while we were running away, a couple of times he wanted me to leave him." Mark made a little palms-up gesture. "He thought I'd have a better chance getting out of there by myself, especially after he got hurt."

"He meant it?" Hardcastle asked doubtfully.

"Yeah," Mark nodded, "I think he did."

The judge looked like he was thinking it over. He finally gave the idea a tentative nod. Then he added a frown to that and said, "But you stuck with him. You never considered hightailing out of there, maybe just to go for help." This time there was no doubt.

McCormick sat quietly, feeling a little unfocused, maybe even confused. He finally said, "I guess I couldn't. I guess I _am_ stuck with him. I mean, he is my father."

"Well, I suppose there's something to that," the judge said consideringly, "but you're not really the type for running out on anyone."

"You mean I'm just crazy in general, huh?"

"No hope for you, I think. You can't help it." It was probably meant in humor, but there was an edge of worry to Hardcastle's tone.

"But—" Mark had only gotten the first word out, when a voice in the hallway distracted them both.

" . . . And if you're ever in Reno, you oughta try and catch my act. I can get you a front row table."

The door swung open and a wheelchair was maneuvered through, bearing a beaming Sonny Daye, his right leg extended on a support and freshly set in white plaster. The young woman doing the pushing looked mildly tolerant.

"Where's Caulkin?" Hardcastle asked bluntly. "You give him the slip again?"

Sonny made a dismissive gesture with one hand. His escort was turning to leave. He looked up quickly and said, "Not you, dear lady."

She gave him a brief, slightly impatient look and said, "I'm just the taxi service, Mr. Daye. Can't stick around." She managed a quick smile and then was gone.

Sonny sighed.

"Caulkin," Hardcastle repeated. "The FBI."

"Oh, _them_," Sonny shrugged. "I told 'em the arrangement just wasn't gonna work. Heck, let's face it, what were the odds that a headliner like me could hide out somewhere? Somebody'd probably recognize me right off the bat. 'Hey, Sonny, caught your act in Atlantic City!' You know, that kind of stuff."

Mark was staring at him in stark disbelief. It took a moment; then he finally shook himself free from it.

"You mean you aren't going to testify against Florentino?"

There might've been a slight flush of nervous embarrassment, but it was quickly mastered. "No reason to—they don't need me. They got that woman, Celia, got a dead hit man with ties to him, and _he_ shot at an ex-judge. Got the other guy, too, and I hear he pulled a gun on the FBI agents—they got themselves a pile of new evidence." He was smiling, though it looked a little thin.

McCormick said nothing. The silence didn't have a chance to get strained, though, before Sonny said, "I've got a plane reservation—red-eye back East. He checked his watch quickly. "Don't think I'll have time to get my luggage, but that's how it is with your old man. Always travel light. Maybe you could ship it to me? I'll send you the address once I'm settled."

Mark nodded. It was the merest, perfunctory civil reply. "Settled," he repeated distractedly.

Then Sonny was backing his wheelchair out, through the door into the hallway. There was a quick, blithe wave of the hand. He turned left and was gone. Mark tilted his head back, studying the ceiling and slumping down in his chair. He avoided looking at Hardcastle.

"Consistency," he finally said.

00000

It was Monday morning, and Hardcastle had slept in, not coming downstairs until after ten a.m. He was stiff and sore, and harbored only a faint hope that McCormick hadn't already dismantled the LA Times.

He smelled coffee, which confirmed his worst suspicions. The kitchen, however, was deserted and the paper was folded and untouched on the table. He looked out the back door, toward the pool. No one there. He headed down the stairs, gingerly, and rounded the corner of the garage. The truck was there and McCormick, as well, unloading the last of the gear.

"That guy Caulkin delivered it," Mark said, looking a little put out. "And I suppose we should be grateful but they threw the rods in first and the cooler on top."

"They're probably still kinda miffed at Sonny," Hardcastle said philosophically. He picked up his favorite Spey, formerly in four pieces and now in five. He sighed. Then he cocked one eyebrow at the younger man. "Hey, you never told me how the fishing was."

"Better than the hunting; lucky for me."

Hardcastle grinned. "You catch anything?"

Mark held up one finger and then added, "First cast," with a self-satisfied smile.

"Really?" The judge's grin grew even broader. He looked at the jumbled pile of gear stacked behind the truck. "We oughta go back up there."

Mark froze, then turned and gave him a disbelieving stare. "Is this like getting up on the horse right after you've been thrown?"

Hardcastle thought about that one for a moment and then said, "Nah, you wouldn't not go back to a good fishing spot just because you'd been shot at there, would ya?"

McCormick frowned, as though that didn't deserve much thinking. "Hell, if I had to avoid every place where I'd ever been shot at, I'd need a map. But the doc said you're supposed to take it easy."

"It's _fishing_," the judge wheedled, "how much easier can you take it?"

"And then there's the part about sleeping under the stars with just a blanket," Mark pulled one of the rumpled sleeping bags off the pile, shedding down through multiple holes. "The tent is toast, too," he added. "Sorry."

"One cast," Hardcastle said wistfully.


End file.
